


Eyes

by Silver Lioness (Rumpels_Darker_Dearie)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Victoria (TV)
Genre: Dancing, F/M, Inter Class Sex, Older Man/Younger Woman, Sex, UST, out of wedlock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-16
Updated: 2019-12-27
Packaged: 2021-02-26 01:01:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,891
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21824824
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rumpels_Darker_Dearie/pseuds/Silver%20Lioness
Summary: The Queen Victoria was not always a black wearing, doom ridden queen dripping in Whitby Jet jewellery. Once she was a young, vibrant woman who had desired, and dreamed.This is a what-if!Hermione Granger, Lucius Malfoy and Draco Malfoy are along for the ride.
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Lucius Malfoy, William Lamb 2nd Viscount Melbourne/Victoria of the United Kingdom (1819-1901)
Comments: 1
Kudos: 29





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> If I continued this it would connect to the Harry Potter world.

**EYES**

Domineered. She had been domineered all her life by her mother and her fusty mother’s advisor, she was fed up with it and wanted to rebel. Oh, there was one thing wrong with that, she was the Queen of England. Bloody inconvenienced by a crown that weighed heavily on her head. She needed to be young, to enjoy balls without the ceremony, to dance without feeling the invisible symbol of her rule.

That was when they met when she felt even weightier on her. Eyes that could strip her naked in one look. If only the man had that power, she thought. That was where her true self could run free reign. Slowly, she turned in the dance to find the eyes were slowly taking in her body, she watched as turned on her heel. The eyes haunted her, the man himself was her Prime Minister.

Her heart, an organ it was rumoured she did not possess, beat hard in her chest. Steady rhythms to meet the pace of the dancing. Also the step of her passions, now her own eyes were fixated on him. Twirling around always making sure she could see him.

So, this was not the first time she met him. It was the inaugural time she found herself meeting his eyes with calm equanimity and flirtation. A friend had whirled next to her, causing them to almost stumble.

“Oh I am sorry, my Queen,” the guest, the daughter of the Duchess of Cornwall said. “I was hoping to grab your attention, really.”

This meant a little conversation was in order, “I wish to know your name,” the Queen replied.

“Hermione,” she said blushing.

“No harm was done, Hermione, perhaps we ought to take a ride on the horses sometime soon,” to which the young woman nodded and she was approached by a young blond man who offered his hand, blushing Hermione smiled and checked her card. “Draco, a rather odd name,” Hermione said, “but Greek-like mine, let us to the dancefloor.”

When the Queen was left alone. The eyes were walking, somehow she forgot that the eyes were only a body part but belonged in a face with cheekbones that could shard diamonds, lips that could quibble and, Victoria blushed, ardently kiss too. They were lips formed for War Speeches and for Making Love…the naughty thoughts invaded her mind again.

A man was a troublesome beast; the eyes were closer to hers and glanced down on the head of the man she had come to depend upon.

She curtsied as he bowed low from the waist, he forest green velvet jacket brought out the golden quality his gaze possessed.

“My Queen,” he demurred, carefully taking her hand in his, “may I have the honour of this dance.”

Blushing all the way down her neck she smiled, and lengthened her arm out, “I shall be delighted,” she said.

“My dear Queen might I say you look exquisite this evening.”

“And you, dignified, Prime Minister.”

The moment he wrapped an arm around her waist she knew she was done for, this man – the saintly creature belonged with her, and for her, she couldn’t let go.

“Enjoying yourself, my Queen?”

Her answer must be guarded she knew that but she wanted to be 18, a young girl dreaming for a man she met at the Dance Ball, “Immeasurably more so now,” she smirked, her eyes gleaming triumphantly. “Now that I’m dancing with you, I feel my world complete!”


	2. Lady Granger

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Insight into Hermione's homelife and an invitation easy to accept.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would like to thank **LumosLyra** for the beta job she made exposing weak points.
> 
> I would be gratified if you look over any mistakes made. If you spot something heinously wrong, point it out and I will go back and correct it.

**Lady Granger**

**29 TH June 1838**

It was the sound of curtains opening and the bright splay of the sunshine’s rays that woke her from her slumber. Lady Granger stretched and yawned just as a second servant entered her room holding a silver tray with two soft boiled eggs, a slice of bread cut into soldiers, two pieces of toast, and tea brewing in a delicate china pot. Next to the plate where the hot, buttered toast rested was the edited newspaper her officious uncle thought a young girl ought to read. The trim, pretty young servant girl curtsied then discreetly left the room, followed by the one who’d been tasked to stoke the fire and open the drapes.

As she shifted to sit up in her bed, the throbbing of her feet brought back memories of the previous evening. Neville, the ‘nice boy’ her almost puritanical aunt wished for her headstrong niece to fall for, had trod on her feet when they were dancing. Of course, the fact that she was a witch was a closely guarded secret from her new friends from her coming out party, especially as Wizard Law insisted, though Neville knew, not because she had slipped up. No! Ironically, Neville was a wizard and they happened to attend the same school.

Unfortunately, he was practically orphaned, due to a secret war against the Dark Lord, Verurteiltur the _Condemned_ One- and Condemned he most certainly was by the good of the Wizarding world - for his actions against Witches and Muggleborn ones especially. Unprincipled and infamous, he had amassed a serious following so dangerous that the Ministry was keeping an eye on his scurrilous activities. Luckily, Hermione did not know anyone who followed him personally.

Alongside the normal papers was her copy of the Daily Prophet. Hermione smiled as she read of the upcoming nuptials of her best friend and brother in all but blood to the desirable Miss Weasley. Since the day she had first made the girl’s acquaintance, Miss Weasley had been practically gushing about Harry. The betrothal agreement was completed following the sixteenth year of her birth and the seventeenth year of his by their parents - Severus and Lily Snape – (Harry was originally Harry Potter but his father died due to Dragon Pox - it was then that Lily reconnected with an old friend - Severus Snape), a few months later and they were married and Severus adopted the young child as his heir as well having four others of his own with Lily. Ginevra’s parents, Arthur and Molly Weasley, were thrilled with the advantageous match their only daughter had made. 

Next to the papers sat a tidy stack of letters, likely from all of her admirers at the ball. While there were several different seals, one that mildly intrigued her was the one marked as belonging to a Slytherin - she had no idea why she’d agreed to dance with Draco Malfoy in the first place, apart from the fact that it was highly suggested by her aunt to at least make an effort, an attempt, at courting. 

Despite the fact that she lived in the lap of luxury and had been doing so since the truth of her father’s heritage was revealed; she found her aunt despicable and her uncle odious especially with their treatment of the servants. All, bar the odd one or two, were squibs or descendants of squibs. She would much prefer a quiet life in a tidy townhouse with her dentist father than be subjected to one more moment in this house.

Just as she was about to peruse more of her correspondence, her aunt teetered through the doorframe wearing yet another heinous pink dress, despite the fact that the colour did nothing to flatter her complexion. Youthful and lovely, her aunt was not. She looked more like a piece of chewed up mutton crossed with a lady of the street. 

“Still abed, I see,” the horrible woman sniffed.

“I was merely looking through my letters to see if any invitations were sent to me to attend any more balls,” she said as she opened the tops of her eggs, scooped out the white and then delicately dipped her soldiers into the oozing yellow yolks, it was her favourite breakfast. “It is the season for dancing,” she said after she swallowed.

Hermione was always careful not to get crumbs all over the place.

“Whilst you may have wormed your way into the magistrocracy that your father was robbed of due in part to the onerous fact that he inherited his mother’s non-magical blood, and it was you, instead, that was accepted into Hogwarts, it does not make you any more than what you actually are.”

It was a waste of derision, but Hermione still narrowed her eyes and slouched against the silver velvet headboard. In an attempt to disguise her disgust, she nibbled at her last toast soldier. Then, as she was about to open the letter with the Slytherin seal her aunt squealed with a terrifying level of delight.

“How did you manage to gain a letter from the Royal household?”

If Hermione had been more awake she’d have heard the hint of jealousy in her aunt’s voice and noticed the way her lip curled in a sneer at the sight of the letter and recognized the slight contempt in her manner of speech. Were Hermione just a bit quicker on the pulse she would have picked the letter up before her aunt had a chance to see it and shoved it under her pillow for private perusal later.

Still, it happened as it did, and her aunt viciously ripped the expensive envelope open, reading the missive with haste as though each tiny letter were a morsel served especially for her piggy eyes. Hermione’s heart seemed to be lodged in her throat as she waited for the woman to finish. 

“Hem hem,” her aunt finished the letter and folded it neatly in her stubby hands. “So, you made the Queen stumble in front of everyone?”

The knowledge that a beating was on the horizon if she did not choose her words carefully was enough to make Hermione’s pulse race in fear.

She kept her voice small and respectful, “I did not mean to.”

Her aunt was stoic and stiff, “See me once you are dressed,” she stretched her arm out with the missive tucked between two grubby plump fingers, “your letter, dearest niece.” The coldness of her voice sent a shiver up Hermione’s spine.

She cautiously took the parchment from her aunt, “Yes aunt.”

“Aunt what?”

“Aunt Dolores.”

~♥~♥~

Once Aunt Dolores was gone, Hermione took the note and carefully unfolded it. She felt intensely flattered by Her Majesty’s attention. The memory of the sight of the Queen and the Prime Minister gracefully dancing around the ballroom brought a smile to her lips. If there was one thing she prided herself in, it was being observant of the minute ticks that betrayed people’s true emotions. At this point, Hermione would bet all of the galleons in her vault that the new Queen and the country’s Prime Minister were in the early stages of infatuation.

With a deep breath to calm her racing pulse, she began to read. 

_Dear Hermione,_

_Forgive me for being so forward, but I feel I earned the right to call you by your Christian name when we so clumsily collided with one another last night. Allow me the honour of friendship, for at that moment I could not help but feel a kindred spirit in you as our eyes met._

_I understand you are of the Gloucestershire Grangers and hail from Cheltenham, a new but elegant town. Hence, you are the Duchess of Cornwall in waiting and as befits your rank, I wish to invite you to court as one of my ladies-in-waiting._

_Residence at the palace is not optional, of course, and I do hope this will not be an inconvenience, should you accept. I have been advised by Lord M, who has his ear bent by the Lord M. of Bath, that you are of special powers._

_Yes, I am aware of your world and in private at least there is no need to hide that from me. In truth, I find myself curious. Were you aware of the equivalent ranks between our societies? Lords and Ladies, both wizard and what you call Muggle, pay heed to my court and rule and therefore you are safe in my protection. I, for one, am grateful to not have competition from another royal line._

_Please do accept. I am dulled by the companions my mother foists upon me. It is my greatest desire of a companion of my own age and what I suspect is intelligence to share in my confidences. One, I may say, that will not report back to my morbid mama that I hold secret in my heart._

_Please mark your letter, FHMEO. It should then come to me unopened. (My mama is rather too nosy for her own good.)_

_Your discretion is appreciated._

_Victoria_

It did not take long for Hermione to gather that the abbreviation meant “For Her Majesty’s Eyes Only.” She need not be convinced, of course, she would join the Queen’s side, it would be a dream come true. 

As soon as she made up her mind, a few servants entered the room with a curtsy in order to tidy the space and assist her with dressing for the day. Padma, her own personal maid bobbed her knees, “Mistress,” she said.

Hermione glanced up and beamed happily, “Is there not a more glorious day than this, Padma,” she sighed, wistfully. Padma was the only magical being in the household aside from her aunt, Dolores and her uncle, Peter. She needed to tend to things that squibs and squib born could not, she was paid a pittance for her trouble, but she and Hermione treated each other with equal respect, and, at that moment, Hermione swore to take the Padma with her.

“I take it Mistress has had good news,” Padma smiled. She had hoped since Hermione arrived here as a little girl that she would leave as soon as she could if only to escape from the cruelty of Lady Umbridge. They became fast friends and confidantes to each other. Padma had disclosed a secret love she held for a Jew who was in Ravenclaw alongside her, it was a secret Hermione would keep to the grave.

Hermione nodded, “I have to meet my aunt after I get dressed,” she sighed, “then tell the old…”

Padma’s eyes widened and shook her head, schooling her Mistress epithets in case someone else was listening in. It was known that her aunt’s new servant was also a witch, although Marietta Edgecomb had yet to show such signs of great powers, “Is it presumptuous to ask Mistress what it is that has her in high spirits?”

“I cannot say yet.” Hermione rose from her bed, placing her feet on the plush rug which had been warmed by the sun’s rays. “I will say that you are to come with me when I leave. I know how…”

Padma sighed, there was her Mistress again, campaigning for rights, “We know our place, Mistress.”

That statement said with such airiness distressed Hermione’s beliefs. Indians were not servants, they were humans. She strived as hard as she could for their freedoms, even in their own country they were treated with malcontempt for just being themselves in their own land. At one time she felt the same for House Elves, but they were an odd species who truly enjoyed work. 

“Be that as it may, Miss Patil, you are with me forever,” she said warmly taking Padma’s hand in hers, displaying through touch that she was wanted and needed. “Now, make me look presentable.”

Presentable, in Hermione’s mind, was utterly dull - but it was one of the way’s she’d found to avoid her aunt’s wrath. Padma set to work with heating and sticking charms to give Hermione’s hair some semblance of order and discipline. It took three servants to tug her into the corset and skirts - a bland grey and blue, suitable for a normal day’s work, especially one that would start with a beating. Whilst Hermione was getting dressed she turned her head away from the mirror to avoid glancing at her naked body, for it was littered with recrimination.

Afterwards, she would go through the rest of her correspondence and then go about her day to visit charities, of accepting and going to various houses for tea and tête-à-tête and to receive visitors should they come with her aunt’s permission. It was ultimately up to her aunt whether she could leave or not.

~♥~♥~

Whilst she was at her toilette being primped and prodded, Hermione had ruminated on what she wished to say to her pompous toad of an aunt. Now that she was standing in front of the wooden doors leading to her aunt’s favoured sitting room, nerves assaulted her. It was then her uncle scuttled past glancing lasciviously up and down her body, the undisguised lust forcing a shudder down her spine. She had learned, long ago to be wary of the man and wished for the day she could escape the clutches of her relatives. Hermione tapped her fingers against the solid wood three times awaiting her aunt’s permission to enter.

It was no secret that her aunt and uncle married not for love but for convenience. Her uncle agreed to the match due to the fortune her aunt possessed and her position within the Ministry, while her aunt required a husband to advance in her career.

When her parents were obliviated by a team of professionals who had visited her happy home, when she was a child six tender years of age, she was forced into the home of an estranged Aunt. Dolores and her slimy husband, Uncle Peter Pettigrew. From the first moment she set foot in the door Hermione was made to do light chores to pay her way even though they were drowning in Galleons. At first, she was terrified of the woman and wary of the man. At the age of 19, Uncle Peter had grown worse in his disconcerting winks, his hopeful smiles, and the way his ratty nose twitched when she walked in the room frankly scared her witless. 

Hermione did little to hide her dislike of her relatives at this point in her young life, though she made it a point to at least attempt to be respectful, no matter how much she despised doing so. 

“You wished to see me, Aunt Dolores,” she greeted after her aunt bade her entrance, taking care to check her appearance once more.

“You know that I did child, no need for your saucy impertinence.” Hermione resisted the urge to roll her eyes. 

“No, ma’am.”

“So,” Dolores steepled her fingers, resting her flabby chin on her fat fingers. “You clumsily collided with our Queen?”

“I read the rest of the letter,” Hermione said.

“Be quiet, girl” Dolores hissed, “I am appalled – nay dare I say – _aggrieved_ that you have been chosen on a matter of whim by her Royal Majesty.”

“I plan to accept!” she exclaimed vehemently. Punishments be damned. “I also wish to take Miss Patil with me.”

“Oh you shall accept,” Dolores said with a threat in her voice. “I hear her mother is a disciplinarian. May she do you good where it is evident I have failed. Despite her notions of friendship,” Dolores sneered, “the Queen is still answerable for her actions. Perhaps this may force you to marry, although I do feel sorry for the young gentleman who gains your heart – he’d need to take you firmly in the hand!”

“At least I have a heart!” she mumbled quietly, bowing her head and twiddling her fingers winding them around the flowing ribbons in her skirt.

Despite the quiet manner in which she had made her stubborn accusation, her Aunt’s ears seemed to prick at the inferred insult. The silence was deafening, and Hermione tugged at her sleeve in an attempt to mask the scar that was already there. The vulpine grin that adorned her aunt’s face shifted Hermione’s perspective. This may be the last punishment she’d receive from this odious beast of a human, but it was going to hurt.

“Let me think,” she said coldly, “you must write I Must Respect My Betters And Not Interrupt Them In The Middle of Conversation on this parchment for one hour! Once you’re finished with that you must then write your acceptance letter to the Queen. Following that, you shan’t step foot into this house again. The moment you leave the doors will be closed permanently - for you and anyone who is foolish enough to follow you.”

Bile rose into her throat, her fears materialized in the acrid taste that lingered in her mouth, when she laid eyes on the blood quill. Why could she not be diminutive for one time? For the last time! The Queen would surely be her saviour.

Quite frankly she was petrified of disobeying her aunt, if she was loathsome in toeing the party line, Aunt Dolores would hand her over to Uncle Peter for him to lend a firm hand. Hermione believed he enjoyed beating her! Thus, with maturity and fear for the other option, Hermione did as she always had done and calmed her temper then obediently, Hermione took the quill from her aunt’s hand and nodded as she walked over to a desk and chair by the window where it was warmed by the sun’s rays. As she sat down, the light that hit behind, was reminiscent of a romantic painting from the renaissance era. If Draco Malfoy had seen there and then he’d propose at the sight of such beauty. The quill and parchment appeared on the surface and, steeling her nerves, Hermione began to write. As she squirmed and wriggled in her seat, her neat cursive script etched itself into her skin- this time on her thigh as her own blood was deposited on the parchment by the quill.

Phrases like I Must Obey My Aunt At All Times (Right Forearm), I Must Not Sulk When Reverend Fudge Comes (Left Forearm), I Am Not To Pout At Walburga Black (Inner Right Thigh), Do Not Fold Your Arms and Slouch (Inner Right Forearm). She had researched blood quills and knew they were forbidden but there were no authorities to run too. 

The tick of the clock taunted Hermione as the torturous hour passed with the speed of a turtle. The atmosphere in the room closed in around her as she tried to maintain composure and not cry as she scratched the words over and over again, at the stabbing pain throbbing in her outer right thigh.

Tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock… it was mendacious and soothing at the same time.

But crawl by it did, and eventually, the parchment and quill were replaced by a fresh sheet, an eagle-feather quill and a pot of purple ink.

“You must keep your words formal,” her Aunt said coldly, “and not afford her the familiarity with which she afforded _you_. You are lesser than she. You are lesser than _anyone_!”

_Your Royal Majesty,_

_I write to inform you that I heartily accept the position of Lady-In-Waiting to your Majesty._

_I wish to, if I may bring a servant of my home by the name of Padma Patil. She too is of “special powers.”)._

_I was aware that there is a muggle equivalent for the rank, however, I was not familiar with either Lord M or Lord M. of Bath, but I have a feeling I shall soon be acquainted with one or both soon._

_I am honoured to be invited to reside in the palace, my Queen and find myself humbled by your faith in me after a mere glance, but they often say the eyes are the key to the person’s strengths, do they not?_

_I shall mark this as requested and believe we shall find companionship in one another_

_Your loyal servant,_

_Hermione_

With one further glance over her letter and a nod, she dusted the sheet with powder to dry the ink. Upon folding the letter, she quickly marked the letter as the queen requested with the letters “FHMEO” and the location the letter was to be delivered, then she sealed with her aunt’s wax seal. 

Pulling the bell for a servant, Hermione asked him, the moment he arrived, to send the letter straight to the palace. It took a moment for him to understand the importance, though Hermione was confident he would convey the message properly and wait for the reply. 

Now all she had to do was wait.

~♥~♥~

After the servant set off to the Palace and her aunt dismissed her from the sitting room, Hermione made her way to the library. Many new books were coming out and she decided to settle on an old one but a favourite, _Frankenstein_. She immersed herself in the words of Mary Shelly, fascinated by the science until the moment where the Monster was being created and the door to the library swung open on creaking hinges.

Eagerly, she glanced up hoping it was the servant with her reply, she could not pack until she had permission to go to the Queen, only to be faced with her rat-faced uncle. _The toad and the rat_ , she thought snidely, _no wonder they couldn’t have children_ \- though that in itself was a blessing in disguise

“How are you?” he asked, rubbing his hands gleefully, the ever-present lecherous smile adorning his lips.

“Just leaving,” she said as she marked the place in the book and made to stand up only to have her uncle rush towards her at an alarming speed.

“Roses,” he smirked as he sniffed the air, “such a lovely scent for such a lovely young witch,” his pudgy hands stroked up her arms and she did her best not to retch at the contact. “Beautiful scent.”

“Leave me alone,” Hermione hissed, taking a step backwards.

“I’ve waited and waited,” her uncle said, “and I can be with you, I can give you power over your aunt,” he licked his lips and her heart sank to her stomach. 

The story went that Hermione’s father was a squib born to Galen Umbridge, an inept Wizard, and his Muggle wife Jane. Two years later Dolores was born and was born a witch. It was then Galen had come clean to his wife. She left him with a note saying she was not living with one of Satan’s Spawn any longer. So Galen had to raise Dolores on his own. Months had passed and Jane had divorced Galen on grounds of incompatibility - she gained custody of the son and he kept the daughter. Hermione’s father was once Alexander Umbridge. When Jane remarried, it was to a Dentist called Daniel Granger. Daniel adopted the child and neither brother nor sister had seen each other, ever again.

Not even when Peter married Dolores to up his status and be highbrow like his ex-school-chum, Sirius Black. So now they were Peter and Dolores Umbridge-Pettigrew. Advantageous for him, convenience for her, and neither willing to give up the job.

“I’ll scream.”

“I will tell them you started it,” he glanced down to her skirts, probably imagining all that lay beneath, “always so pretty. You did, you know, grow up so beautiful. Taunting me every day in every way.”

Just as Hermione was about to try and run for the doors, the same servant returned with the letter in his hands, “For the young Mistress,” he said stiffly. Peter glared at the intruder and straightened his wig.

Passing the servant, Hermione’s uncle slipped the man a bag of coins to spend on whatever his heart desired for silence on what he’d seen. When they were alone Hermione bade the servant stay as she read the missive knowing it was only his presence that was protecting her from her uncle’s unwanted attention.

_Dear Hermione,_

_Tosh, you may call me Victoria should you so desire as we are to be friends_

_I have informed the Prime Minister, who was with me at the time of your letter’s arrival. He, in turn, sped to Number 10 where he can convene with your Lord Bath for advice. As you can tell it took some time but, the upshot is, that Lord Bath has volunteered his services to chaperone you from your current home to the palace by the end of today._

_Of course, you may bring whomever you wish. A good servant is hard to come by so to have one trustworthy of your private secrets is to be treasured._

_I bid you not to worry too fastidiously over your wardrobe as enough for one week shall suffice, though a ballgown will be required._

_I do hope Lord Bath is to your liking, I’d hate to send a dullard to accompany you on your journey._

_Your friend,_

_Victoria’_

Tonight? She had to leave by tonight! Hermione bid the servant hurry and find Padma, so she could inform the young witch that they were to leave by the end of the day. As she waited, she mused over the man who was to be her chaperone – she did not know where the Lord Bath originated, the title would suggest Wiltshire since that is where the muggle Lord Bath hailed from.

The rest of the day was spent organising her belongings and telling her servants what to pack in the various trunks she was to take with her.

She was so busy with her lists that she had not noticed a servant walk into her room.

“Your aunt requests your presence in the drawing-room,” the servant girl said with a curtsey, though she was new and spiteful looking. Hermione found herself grateful she didn’t have to deal with the chit.

“Hermione, smile,” Padma whispered. She too did not like the look of the new girl.

“One does not whisper Christian names of your employer, uncultured swine,” the new girl spat. “Marietta Edgecombe – your replacement.”

“That is such a pity,” Padma replied, “And here I was hoping we’d be such great friends.”

“I will escort you to your aunt,” Edgecombe said stiffly.

Hermione resisted the urge to roll her eyes and smiled. The girls remained silent as they walked down the sweeping staircase and Hermione tried to remain stoic when she saw the door that led to the library, but they passed it at a brisk pace only to arrive once more at the doors leading to her aunt’s favoured sitting room

Edgecombe opened the door and swept in holding it open for Hermione and, again, bobbed another curtsey. All Hermione could see was a black cloak and a tidy length of hair that contained both gold and silver hues. Her eyes wandered over his frame and to her small stature, he appeared but a giant among men. 

As he turned to face her, a demure, practised smile rose to her lips in a bid to show respect but no more until she met his eyes, shining argently in her direction, “Lord Bath, at your service,” he bowed from the waist, “and you must be Miss Granger. I’ve heard of you from my son, Draco.”

She could see the resemblance the moment he mentioned his son. “He was a delightful dancing companion.”

“He said the same of you.” 

Hermione blushed at the praise. “I am pleased we met.” A silence stretched between them as both searched for something to say. “I was packing,” she said and an ardent need to glance at her feet took over, “I shall…”

“That will not be necessary. As of now, my capable servants are taking charge. The Queen is excited to meet you, please,” he offered her his arm and she tentatively accepted it as her aunt strolled on her uncle’s arm.

“Lord Bath?” Aunt Dolores greeted with a grotesque smile and a parody of humility in her curtsey. “I did not think you would come personally to accompany my niece to her new position.”

“The Queen was adamant she be afforded proper protection as there have been rumours of stalkers, and we do not wish harm upon your charge.”

“No of course not,” the woman simpered.

“You are bringing a chaperone?”

“My servant, Miss Patil,” Hermione smiled shyly. The son made her laugh with his witticisms, the father seemed much more serious. “Please, may we go?”

“Do you not wish to bid your guardians farewell?”

_Not particularly_ , Hermione thought, but she knew she must play the part of the grieving niece leaving behind the only home she could remember. With great effort, she released Lord Bath’s arm and moved in front of her aunt, her only living blood relative. She curtsied in what would be presumed as deference and attempted to look sad, though she knew she was probably failing horribly. Her aunt buffed her cheeks whilst squeezing her arms just a touch harder than she ought. Nails dug in and Hermione knew her aunt well enough to interpret the meaning: _Remember, you cannot come back_. Hermione winced when the nails dragged down her arms. There would be scratch marks later, she was sure of it.

“Goodbye Aunt Dolores, Uncle Peter.”

“We shall miss you,” Uncle Peter said not bothering to hide his disgusting lust for her as he took her hands in his and kissed the back of her fingers, tongue darting out ever so slightly.

As quickly as she could, Hermione withdrew her hands from her Uncle’s oily grip. Hermione could feel the heat of Lord Bath’s body on her back; her neck prickled as his breath fell on her skin.

“My Lady,” Lord Bath bowed with a flourish and, once again, took her hand.

She kept her back straight and her head facing forward determined to leave with an air of dignity. His hand wrapped around her own as he handed her into the carriage, leaving her to settle next to Padma who offered her a small smile. 

Hermione felt uneasy as Lord Bath entered the carriage. He regarded her with a cool, level gaze as he tapped the top of his snakes-head cane on the roof, signalling that they should be on their way. The clip-clop of the horse's hooves on the cobble-laden road reassured Hermione that her childhood was over, and she was thankfully out of the grasp of her aunt and uncle

“I need not remind you to be careful when displaying power in front of the queen.”

“I shall display caution; she is aware of what I am.”

“As our monarch, she has to be aware of our world.”

The rest of the carriage ride was spent in heavy silence, but Hermione felt a pair of eyes on her the entire journey.

“May I enquire,” he finally said, breaking the awkward silence that sat like a heavy blanket on them, “did my son treat you well?”

“He was rather entertaining, Lord Bath.”

“With the impression you made on him, I must say I was part of the mind to organise your wedding,” he said with a cold smile. 

Hermione shrugged her shoulders, a small smile playing on her lips, “I am flattered good sir, but I do not know your son well enough to even remotely consider the bonds of matrimony,” she said before turning to Padma, whispering something in the girl’s ear.

“I do hope that there was nothing malevolent against my son.”

“Just girlish secrets,” Hermione replied slightly coquettishly.

“Ah,” he sat back and turned to look out the window and the remainder of their journey was spent in silence.

For her part, Hermione was happily anxious as she contemplated her new adventure.


End file.
